BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

Evening Star, Issue 18256, 21 April 1923, Page 10

BOOKS AND BOOKMEN

VERSUS. HOUSE BOUND. “ Men who love houses and the quiet hearth, What do they know of ships that go to sea ? They have not looked at tall spars wistfully, Or marked the flight of seabirds from the earth. Men who love streets and towns, what do they know Of silver beauty blown across the night? Only the look of plum-trees trembling white, Only the scent of orchards when they blow. Their ears aro deaf to waves along tho shore( They never stand at dawn upon a quay; Their feet aro never vagrant to explore, Nor is tho tide in what they say or see. No sight of water wounds them like a dart, Nor docs an anchor weigh upon their heart.’’ —Harold Vinal, in the 1 Pictorial Review.’ LOST YOUTH. Heaven’s gate for mo was once a stile, The grassy fields I trod Wcro full of flowers that seemed erowhile As stars that gazed on God; And merry birds were cherubim That sang in hawthorn trees — But now I'm older, now I’m older. Where are these? Once if my feet but fell_ on grass Each one became a wing, And I moved on as clouds will pass When winds are trumpeting; And once to me tho soft-spun moss Was from an angel’s weft— But now I’m older, now I’m older, What is left? The feet that flew, tho eyes that glowed, The lamp of faith that shone, They fail me now upon the road That I must travel on; Tho frost ercwhilo was holy breath For sign upon my panes— But now I’m older, now I’m older, What remains? —Wilfrid Thorley, in the ‘New Witness.’

NOT FETTERS, BUT PINIONS. In two pieces of her posthumous volume ‘Last Poems,’ ‘The Laws of Verse’ and ‘The English Metres,’ Alice Meynell professes her faith that the measures of traditional prosody are not fetters, but pinions of fancy. She values, indeed, tho relative freedom of our English metres, " tethered, uneapturedi, rules obeyed ‘at ease’”; but the poet’s liberty must acknowledge its bounds, and) it is to the ideal of law simply that she dedicates some of the finest lines in the book: Dear laws, come to my breast! Take all my frame, and make your dose arms meet Around me ; and so ruled!, so warmed, so pressed, I breathe, aware; I feel my wild heart beat. Dear laws, be wing* to me I Tho feather merely floats. 0, be it heard Through weight of life—the skylark’s gravity—■ That I am not a feather, but a bird. TREASURES IN ENGLISH TOMBS. “ William Camden, writing a few years after Spenser’s death in 1599, recorded that tho hearse was attended by poets, and mournful elegies, with the pens that wrote them, were thrown into the grave,” says a writer in tho ‘ Observer.’ “ The name of William Shakespeare was famous among poets at that date, and as wo do not possess a line of his handhvriting which can bo considered indisputable, surely the search is worth undertaking.” Another writer recalls the desecration of Milton’s tomb, and expresses the hope that Spenser's remains and those of other poets will for ever bo left in peace. In 1790, whilst the Church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, was undergoing repairs, tho overseers, for the sake of gain, opened a coffin supposed to be Milton’s. They found a body, extracted its teeth, cut off its hair, and left the remains to the gravediggers, who exhibited them for money to the public. Dio outrage provoked verses of indignant protest from Cowper ‘‘on the late indecent liberties taken with the remains of Milton.” SCHOOLDAYS OF NOVELISTS. EXPERIENCES OF LIVING WRITERS. What does a novelist owe to his school days? Everything or nothing (says a writer in ‘John o’ LondonSs Weekly’) —there is no hard and fast rule. Mr Thomas Hardy, for example, went to school in Dorcnester and later in London; and at sixteen he was articled to an 'architect. Undoubtedly as a boy ho must have had the early stirrings of tho Wessex tales within him, but so far as the public knows ho obtained no actual materia! from his school days. The case of Mr Arnold Bennett differs slightly. Ho went to tho grammar school in the Newcastle of the Potteries, and it is true that ho does not seem to have made much of tho experience. But, unlike Mr Hardy, he did display literary leanings very early. In Tug Truth About" An Author,’ in which Mr Bennett has dealt with as much of his school days as ho has cared to confide *to the public, ho pleads guilty to the perpetration at a tender age of a poem entitled ‘ Courage.’ And about the time he left school he was contributing his first regular weekly column to a newspaper of the Five Towns. Mr W. L. George refers to his school days in a short passage in his most successful novel, ‘ The Making of an Englishman.’ He found, he says there, the years between ten and fourteen so futile. “To this day,” ho continues, “I am faintly surprised when an Englishman talks of his school.” A different reason has prevented Mr J. D. Beresford from dwelling at length in his dealings on the time ho spent _ at school. To learn anything about this time one must turn to “W. E. Ford,” the “ biography ” which ho wrote with Mr Kenneth Richmond. It is possible for two writers to have been at tho same school and for one to remain silent —in a creative way on the subject, while the other makes much of it. Mr Hugh Walpole and Mr W- Somerset Maugham were both at King’s School, Canterbury. Mr Walpqle became a schoolmaster, and later ho lived in London poorly ns a literary aspirant, and this adventurous later life threw tho memory of his school days into the shade. But Mr Maugham became a writer much earlier than Mr Walpole. Mr H. G. Wells is naturally to be considered next to Mr Maugham, for while ho did not take to journalism until he was twenty-five and to novel-writing until he was twenty-eight, he has made much use of his days in a private school at Bromley and of his subsequent period at Midhurst Grammar School, not to mention his years at the Royal College of Science at South Kensington. Mr Corapton Mackenzie became both author and editor at Oxford when he was younger than Mr Wells was when the latter began to write. Mr Kipling, though, is an even better example of precocious literary talent. He was full' grown when ho wrote his immortal ‘Stalky and Co,’ built upon his memories of Westward Ho! College. Sir James Barrio’s early journalistic and literary efforts as a young member of tho staff of the .‘Nottingham Journal have been recalled by that newspaper in view of tho lapse of forty years, since Barrie entered its offices. We are told that his daily; quota of editorial matter often ran

A LITERARY CORNER.

to two columns, not reckoning a Monday special article, signed “ Hippomencs,” and a Thursday column cf lively notes under the heading, ‘ The Modem Peripatetic.’ It is found that he often quoted Scott, Macaulay, Oliver Wendell Holmes,' Dickens, Chaucer, Jans Austen, and the Brontes, and that his later devotion to the stage is foreshadowed in these early efforts. The last note that Barrio wrote before leaving Nottingham in his momentous liegira to London, is quoted ns follows. He had read something about a “ dimple manufactory ” which n Frenchman had propected in Chicago, and ho commented :

“ The trade, of course, will be supplied wholesale, and there will be the usual reduction on taking a quantity. For a good dimple a fair price will no doubt be asked, but inferior articles will be sold cheap. “ Every dimple will be stamped with the trade-mark of the maker, without which none is genuine. “ It is understood that the ladies who are not blessed with dimples, or have left them off, are determined to have them now.

The factory will have a busy time of it, and' will afford employment to thousands of poor people who are at present out of work. The eyes of the emigrant are now all upon Chicago.” Sir James’s peace of mind in London is now threatened by the proposed removal of the Adelphi, the fine old eighteenth century lagoon of the Strand, in which Mr Bernard Shaw is also domiciled. NOTES. First editions of A. E. Housman’s re-cently-published ‘Last Poems’ are already selling at a guinea (says ‘ John o’ London’s Weekly ’). At the last meeting of the Australian Institute of the Arts and Literature, Mr Bernard O’Dowd read a paper on ‘ Colonialism and Literature.’ After describing the development of the poetic spirit in Australia, which ho declared to bq as ranid as tho material advancement of the country, ho expressed surprise at the general lack of appreciation in Australia of contemporary Australian poetry, and put forward a definite claim for its superiority in regard to virility over the work of Masefield, Drinkwater, Sturge _ Moore, Squire, and others at present writing in Britain. As examples in support of his claim. Miss Eileen O’Keefe and Miss Rose Quong read several poems by Shaw Neilson, Sydney Jephcott, Frank Williamson, Jessie Maokay, Hugh M'Crae, and others. Some notion of what it means to be the wife .of a genius was given recently by Count Ilya Tolstoy in an address on his father at tho twenty-seventh annual conference of the Rovcrofters at East Aurora, New York. “Mw father’s manuscripts,” said Count Tolstoy, "are something that it is almost impossible to read. Only mother could read them Ho would crowd all his innumerable corrections on one sheet, this way and that way and between tho lines. Mother would sit nights and nights copying bis work. In the morning, when father got up, everything was neatly copied; but again tho samo corrections. Everything becomes black, and he gives it to my mother to recopy again, and so many and many times. ho sends tho manuscript to Moscow. _ Then the proofs come back, and he begins to work on the proofs. Again everything is covered with ink. He sends it again to Moscow. It returns again. It goes back and forth ten or twenty times, and sometimes a magazine is held up for two months because Tolstoy is working on tho proofs. Finally everything is O.K. Then no remembers a word ho finds is wrong. He goes to tho station and sends a telegram: ‘ On such and such a pago use such and such a word.’ To correct ono word ho spends lots of time and sends a telegram.”

A loss to more than French literature haJ been suffered by the death of M. Frederic Masson, the historian of Napoleon and permanent secretary of the French Academy. It was to his study of tho Napoleonic era and to the reconstruction of tho life of tho great Emperor that M. Masson devoted his life. Although he had strong Bonapartist leanings, he treated hia favorite subject with impartiality and absolute sincerity and with _ a profound knowledge. He had at his disposal not only the archives of the Foreign Office, but a largo number of private documents relating to tho First Empire possessed by Prince Napoleon, _ whom he served for many years as private secretary. His long'series of works, numbering'some twenty volumes, on the _ private and public life of Napoleon began in 1878, when ho wrote tor the ‘ Revue Britanniquo ’ ‘ Napoleon Arnoureux.’ This was the prelude to ‘ Napoleon ct les Femmes,’ which was published in five volumes, three relating to’Josephine and one to MarieLouise. The twelve volumes which appeared under the title of ‘Napoleon ct sa Famille’ were begun in 1897 and completed in 1912. In the same year M. Masson completed tho monument to Napoleon, the foundations of which ho had laid forty years before, in. his ‘Napoleon a Sainte Helene.’

Nathaniel Wright Stephenson, In his new biography of Abraham Lincoln, tells a diverting story of Mrs Lincoln, of whom some account appeared in these notes recently. An important midday conference was being held at which Lincoln’s presence was absolutely necessary. During the proceedings Mrs Lincoln sent to say that dinner was ready. The President paid no heed. Another message was similarly treated. Shortly after this Mrs Lincoln arrived' —•“ a ruffled, angry little figure ” —whereupon her worthy husband lifted her calmly, carried her outside, and deposited her on the ground—shutting the door in her face. She did not return. How many people know that Hugh Walpole was born in Auckland? (asks a writer in tho Christchurch ‘Sun’). His father, afterwards Bishop of Edinburgh, was incumbent of St. Mary’s Pro-Cathe-dral in Parnell, amd, Walpole was born there in 1884. At tho ago of five ho went to New York, where ho remained for the next seven "years, and einco then there is very little of the world where ho has not been. What are the best bedside books ?_ is a question often asked and, now revived. Personally (says “John o’ London”), 1 have never been able to recognise any laws on tho subject, being of opinion that tho best book to read in bed is tho one—no matter what—to which ono has an inclination, whether it be Hazlitt’s essays, or a novel of Jano Austen’s, or Boswell, or a new detective story. I avoid books of serious and connected interest out of respect for thorn, for, after all, serious literature should not be taken as a sleeping draught. However, Messrs J. M. Dent and Sons have just announced a Bedsido Library, and it is evident that their definition of tho ideal bod book is not narrow. The volumes announced include the sayings of Christ, Socrates, and St. Augustine, the ‘Decameron,’ ‘Cranford,’ and ‘ Tho Strange History of Sir John Palstaff.’

The Dickens Fellowship has a very interesting project on f oot. This is the acquisition, as its own home and as a completely organised museum, library, and social centre, of No. 48 Doughty street, Mccklenburgh square—to which house Dickens removed soon after his marriage from Furnival’s Inn. Ho had then written only eleven numbers of ‘ The Pickwick Papers.’ Hardly had ho settled down when tho'issue of tho twelfth, the anniversary number, was celebrated by a Saturday night dinner given to him by Chapman and Hall. Then death suddenly entered his new home, and with, a crushed spirit ho wrote tho epitaph on his wife’s youngest sister, Mary Hogarth, who had been living under hia roof. “Young, beautiful, and good, God numbered her among His angels at tho early ago of seventeen. ’’ For two months ho was powerless to recover the spirits in which ‘Pickwick’ could ba written.

Though little attention seems bo far to have been paid in Anglo-Saxon countries to tho fiftieth anniversary of tho death of Buhver Lytton, which fell early this year, Franco has been less remiss in noticing it. Tho ‘ Journal des Debats * devoted an article to tho novelist. Not the least interesting statement contained in that study was tho fact that ‘The Last Days of Pompeii ’ continued to enjoy a phenomena! popularity in Prance. Not only has it been a “best seller” from tho time of its first publication, but'within the last twenty years no fewer than five new French translations of it have been made. This is the book which Lytton expected to bo a failure. “I am in tho deepest despondency about Pompeii,” bo wrote to Lady Blessington in 1835. GOOD BOOK ON QUEENSLAND. ‘Wanderings in tho Queensland Bush,’ by W. Lavallin Puxies:. Gco. Allen and Unwin, Ltd. “A lasting memory of sunshine and pleasure ” is how Mr Puxley reviews his stay in Queensland. As a writer he is a little inclined to be discursive and a shade repetitive, but he has an easy style and is a real Nature lover, enamored or the Australian bush as few English tourists arc, and evidently an enthusiastic biologist, geologist, and botanist. How he “did” Queensland was chiefly in a Ford car over roads which, though main routes of traffic through tho State, were not roads at all. Tho best way to negotiate them appears to be to avoid going where other vehicles have gone, picking virgin ground for oneself, except that where streams have to be crossed, tho submerged corduroy bridge of logs has to bo rushed at top, tho driver chancing whether it has rotted or been swept away by a flood. Mr Puxley has a passion, for the solitude which stimulates communing with Nature. “We carefully avoided towns,” he writes, “passing thein as rapidly as possible, and always choosing some lovely spot to camp for the night. One day I begged to be left alone for a whole day upon an island which had taken by fancy, and hero I spent one of the happiest days of my life. All day I wandered with nothing but tho wild things to keep mo company, and I could ask for nothing belter.” As a result of pne lonely bush ramble (during which ho nearly lost himself) ho has ’given a pen picture which Australians will at once recognise as the rare and felicitous expression of a beautiful impression on a receptive mind:—“At last I realised it was time to turn homewards, for tho sun was setting behind the gums, and for the first time I noticed the strange unearthly effect oi tho Australian sunset. For from behind the white stems of tho bluegums the sunset has a beautiful silver effect until the level* of the branches is reached, when it turns to pure gold. I noticed this many a time afterwards, but never grew tired of seeing it, for the mists and hazes in Australia impart tho greatest beauty to the landscape, and the melancholy of tho bush does not detract from this effect, Indeed in no other part of the world have I seen quite tho same sunset effects, for everything is seen through this gold and silver haze.” Australians will thank Mr Puxley for this, also for his reference to “ the 'heavenly music of the carol of the magpies” at dawn—to him “the most beautiful sound in the Australian bush.” Of other birds —tho laughing jackass,_ the parrots and cockatoos, native companions, bower birds, wattle birds, honey-eaters, and emu-wrens, etc.—ho has much of interest to say. He was fortunate in being able to observe the platypus. Ho sawseveral of them playing about in a creek in the evenings, and says this unique rnanimal, though retreating before the wdiitc man, still exists in' some numbers on the rivers and creeks of Central Queensland. The author has a most interesting chapter on dingoes and their probable origin. He refused an invitation, to take part in a dingo drive, owing so much to dogs that he could not bear to injure any of their relations. But he admits their terrible depredations among the flocks, always worst when there has been an infusion of tame blood among them through a sheep dog having taken to the bush, as they often do. One such had a sum of £IOO on his head. The pastoralist in Queensland has many pests to combat. There is the rabbit. the tick, not to mention snakes of all kinds, and ants, and others “ creepy ’ things. And always there seem to be alternations of floods and droughts. Mr Puxley says that rabbits cost Australia about ninotv million sheep, and trapping is as useful as trying to empty a lagoon with a cup while water is pouring into it, the poison-cart being the only effective measure. Cattle are dipped every three weeks for ticks, and the author marvelled at tho docility of tho Queensland cattle, especially bulls, during tho process. In the plains leading to tho “Dead Heart of Australia ” millions of sheep feed and thrive enormously when tho weather is favorable, but when a drought or floods occur they are left to perish. Beneath them is the great artesian basin, more and more tappcd'by bores, whose output seems to bo dwindling. At present settlement is being pushed back from Central Queensland. “Of what use is a plentiful flow of water (the author asks) if no green thing can live and thrive near?” Cowarth, a small township twenty years ago, nowconsists of four houses, two of which are shut up. But tho Queenslander considers his most terrible pest is the prickly pear. A million and a-half acres of land are lost every year through its ravages. Nothing can live against it once it has got a hold. And there is no known antidote to it. However there is a bright side to life in Queensland. Tho author has huge admiration for the Queenslanders as motor drivers, horsemen, and workmen. He met one man who, while waiting for his crop to grow in his newly-cleared selection, had been shearing, droving, canecutting, and sawmilling. Ho has seen tho soldier settlements in _tho_ extraordinary Glasshouse Mountains district, where over 60,000 acres have been set aside for pineapple cfllture. Ho has seen cane-growing, citrus and banana culture (the banana ruins land in about six years unless much green manure is used to reinvigorate tho soil), cotton growing, rubber, tobacco, and pawpaw culture. There ate three varieties of pawpaw'—male, female, and hermaphrodite—and the sex of a tree can bo changed by cutting it down near the ground. Tho pawpaw tree will “drink” sugar and water greedily through a rubber tube led into its hollow stem. But one might go on indefinitely culling curious items from this most informative book. Though the’ author may revel in tho solitude of Nature, he has tho knack of extracting useful knowledge from his fellowmen, whether “pommie” (immigrant) or politician. There is not a dull line in its couple of hundred pages, which arc freely interspersed with photographs of great interest and beauty.